Mommy Untaped

Well, I have been untaped for just over a week now. I met with Dr. P. right after the first of the year. He was very pleased when he pulled the tape from my forehead, so pleased, in fact, he didn't need to see me again. As he was telling me how pleased he was, he was reaching for the tape and a pair of scissors. "Just sit up here on the table, and I will show you how to put this on now."

To refresh your memory, I had been sporting a single piece of tape placed horizontally across my incision. This time he placed one piece vertically on top of the incision and crossed that bit of tape with two more perpendicular pieces. Then he said, "I want you to keep tape on your chin as well." I looked at him and said, "Of course, because, why not?" When I asked how long I would have to wear it, he said, "Not long. Two weeks."

So, although, I could have gotten away without wearing the tape anymore, I wore it, like a good patient. If I took the tape off for a shower, Kate would immediately ask, "Where is your tape, Mommy?" When I ran into one of our pediatricians' nurses (with whom I had discussed the use of paper tape in reducing scarring as she was sporting a piece on a small burn during a recent office visit) in a grocery store last week, she asked about the tape as well. After six weeks, folks had grown accustomed to seeing me bandaged. I must say, though, it looks pretty darn good now and will only get better with time. Thank you Dr. P.! I am also happy to report that the pathology on the moles came back clean.

My doctor is as famous for his bandaging as he is for his higher than average success rate in ridding patients of cancerous moles and keeping infections away. He is P-A-R-T-I-C-U-L-A-R in a good way. A few of my friends and acquaintances (even other physicians) asked about my bandages and tape, and when I responded that I had seen a plastic surgeon, said, "Oh, you saw Dr. P., didn't you?"

Even today, as I am enjoying a few unfettered weeks, I am making arrangements for my plastic surgery appointment next Monday. Alas, it's still not for anything sexy, like new boobs or a tummy tuck, just more moles-- this time on my back.

I will probably be in a body cast.

The Damn Christmas Tree

Let me begin by saying that I love Christmas, especially the time when everything is done and I can sit back and watch my family enjoy each other and their gifts. I enjoy the concerts and programs and especially Christmas Eve mass, once we are in the audience or pews. But the rest of December is exhausting. Getting to the point when the house is ready, the meal is ready, the gifts are ready, and when our hearts and minds are ready is overwhelming.

Early in December my friend Julia, a flight attendant, had a lay-over in Dayton. I had not seen her in a year, so between dropping off two children at choir and making dinner, I picked her up at her hotel near the airport. We drove back to our home, where we sat around our big table, all eight of us, and enjoyed a very kid-friendly dinner of tacos.

When she arrived our house was in the beginning stages of Christmas decorating which means one of our two trees was up and had been decorated by the younger four. The boxes for everything else had been quickly crammed into the front room, the one that is supposed to always be neat in case we have company. We started the process earlier than we had in the two previous years when I had to be pushed into it by my children and even my husband.

I had always loved putting up the tree as a child, as a young adult (even in college), and as a wife and mother. Then, in late December 2007, our third daughter, Julia, was diagnosed with cancer. When one's child is diagnosed with cancer on December 20, Christmas trees and decorations provide the backdrop. Julia sailed through treatment to remission, but when December 2008 rolled around, I was in no hurry to bring out all of the decorations and memories. Around the 10th or so that year Juan and the kids brought up the tree and boxes in their haphazard way and started decorating. Juan took a video of the kids and reminded a crabby me to be more pleasant because he was recording. I think it was mid-January before I got everything undecorated and back in storage.

I honestly don't remember much of last year's decorating, but I can tell you that I was not fired up about it, not only for the memories it evoked but also because of my toddler who touched everything.

Back to my friend Julia... Before my friend and I left to return her to her hotel, she took pictures with kids by the Christmas tree, which reminded me of her grandmother, also named Julia.

Once when Julia and I, then teenagers, were at her grandmother's house, Grandma Zoghby said, "Joo-ya, won't don't you and a couple of your friends come over and decorate my damn Christmas tree. I'll have Uncle Robert get it out of the attic." Then she promised to make us a Lebanese dinner. So for that Christmas and the next, Julia, our friend Rachael, and I decorated Grandma Zoghby's Christmas tree with elves and balls and other decorations from the 50's and 60's, and enjoyed her kibbeh, stuffed grape leaves, meat pies, and the best sweet tea ever brewed.

Grandpa Zoghby had been ill for several years and passed away in 1989. I understand now that decorating for the holidays may have been as painful for Grandma Zoghby as it has been for me. However she felt about it, I have fond memories of decorating her "damn Christmas tree," laughing with my friends, and enjoying her cooking.

This Christmas is quickly approaching, and the decorations are in place, but so are the ladders and other paraphernalia my husband used to paint the foyer. Ah, well! We are now three years beyond Julia's diagnosis and thinking less and less about it. We will probaly remember this Christmas as the year mom had tape on her forehead. (See previous post.)

Going Under the Knife: Part Deux

To refresh your memory, this was me right after my mole-ectomy. I published a much more flattering photo in my previous post. This is the photo sent from my Blackberry to Mama and Daddy, the one with the girl Mama didn't recognize.



I looked like this for two days. I had the procedure on a Wednesday. On Friday, I had to take John and Kate with me to see the doctor. John was very concerned that he was going see my blood. The kids were very (uncharacteristically when together) well-behaved before and during the "great unwrapping." My hair had not been washed since before going under the knife, and it was not only dirty, but parts of it were sticky and stiff from the cleansing agent Dr. P. had used to clean my face and neck. When he cut the bandages off and left the room, I quickly snapped a shot with my phone. I thought I looked better with the bandages on. You be the judge.


To me it looks like a mug shot, like the ones posted on the Dayton Daily News on-line. This is how I would imagine a caption like this would read: Woman, 37, charged with suspected drug use and resisting arrest. My forehead is still a bit swollen in this picture, which is probably why my eyes seem to be two different sizes.

From the doctor's office, I drove John to school and then straight to my hairdresser friend's shop. I have naturally big and often frizzy hair. Once, when I went in for an appointment, I brushed my hair out. I looked like Roseanne Roseannadanna or Janis Joplin. Val came around the corner, and not expecting to see me in all of my fuzzy grandeur shrieked in surprise. She usually takes before and after pictures. Nothing prepared her for me on this day.

It was possibly the best hair washing I had ever had. She washed it twice, and despite the fact that I said she didn't need to, she dried it (an arm tiring exercise with my mop) and styled it. Val's daughter Brittany washed it a few days later, a Monday, to get me to Wednesday when the doctor would remove the stitches, and I could finally take a shower.

When he removed the bandages, Dr. P. told me to dab the stitched areas with peroxide on Q-tips but not to touch it and to avoid getting tap water in it. When he took the stitches out, he was not happy with my wound care. Even though I had diligently dabbed it with peroxide, I was apparently too soft on the forehead. Juan was with me at this appointment. Dr. P. had just removed two moles from Juan's back two days before. More on that later (maybe, if I get around to it)... Anyway, Juan laughed at me for not being clean enough.

My new instructions were to clean the forehead with peroxide, apply Bacitracin to it thrice daily, and return in two days. I was embarrassed to ask my friend for a hair washing again so I went to my daughter Julia's First Reconciliation with stinky, dirty hair pulled back in wide scarf and a sign around my neck explaining the Frankenstein look. Just kidding, there was no sign, but it would have been oh so helpful over the past few weeks.

So when I returned two days later, he told me that it looked very good and that I could shower but to continue with peroxide and ointment. And he wanted to see me in one week. I was as diligent as ever, and as the days went by fewer and fewer folks asked me if I had been in a wreck or if I had slipped in ice and cracked my head open or what the other guy looked like. In fact, I thought my forehead was looking quite well. Judge for yourself.




So I asked Dr. P. if I needed to keep up with the peroxide and Bacitracin. "No, you can discontinue that." I was waiting for him to say, "It will continue to heal on its own, and I will see you in a few weeks." But, no. He said, "Now, I want you to put tape on it. I will show you how. Up on the table." He told me to change it every three days for THREE WEEKS. Its purpose is to keep the area around it from stretching to hopefully leave me with no scar. I went to the apothecary in the hospital to find paper tape. They didn't have it in the store, but when I told them Dr. P. wanted me to wear it, and the manager went to the supply closet to fetch a roll.

One friend suggested that I could take the tape off for Christmas pictures, but I think Nah. I will look back at our photos of the Christmas of 2010 and have a good laugh.

In the meantime, I think I should rent space on it. What do you think?

Going Under the Knife

Juan and I both had plastic surgery. A few months ago, I picked him up at work around lunch time, and we went for a consult. The doctor thoroughly looked us over, our bellies, backs, in our underclothes, between our toes and fingers, our arms, legs, faces, all over. While he was checking us out, he was coming up with a plan. "What plan?" you ask. Perky breasts for a mother of five with six years of nursing under her belt, er, bra? A flat belly for that same mother of five delivered by C-section? Liposuction to remove the insulation from muscles of the father of five?

We wish, and if we ever get some sort of windfall, maybe... But nope. It was all about moles. Juan had a spot on his face that was concerning him, so I suggested that we go together to a plastic surgeon several friends have used and who is a perfectionist. That way I could see what moles were of concern on him and he could do the same for me.

The spot on Juan's face, no biggie. However, he had two on his back that had to come off. I had a mole on my forehead and another on my chin that I have always had and that I have always hated. He asked about those and I said that I have always had them and that sometimes they itch. He told me that they had to come off. I was pleased as it meant I could have them removed and have insurance cover the procedure.

It was October when we arranged our appointments for the beginning of December, and we forgot all about them until after our Thanksgiving vacation to Florida. So of course, I was scrambling to find childcare for the day of my appointment.

On the day of the appointment my friend who had recommended the doctor drove me to his office located on-site at Kettering Hospital. I stood next to two patients wearing oxygen and their caregivers as I waited for the elevator. We climbed aboard the elevator and the stench of cigarettes was all around. Just before the doors closed another patient, shackled and escorted by a deputy sheriff, stepped in. They were all going to the fifth floor. I got off on four.

Once in the office I was moved a room where I changed into a gown and my vitals were taken. From there I went into the procedure room. There were three registered nurses in the room, but it was the doctor who inserted my IV and scrubbed my face three times. The nurses kept me warm with blankets pulled from the dryer. I chose not to be sedated, so besides being cold and shivering (before being packed in warm blankets) the most unpleasant part of the procedure was the needle that administered the local anesthetic in my forehead and chin. I had to keep my eyes (as if I'd want to see) closed so he put some sort of goo between my lids.

I didn't mind the time on the table because while it was not the most comfortable I have ever been, no one was asking anything of me, except to be still and close my eyes, and I enjoyed listening to the doctor and his nurses having a pleasant conversation across my face.

Then he began to cut and solder and sew, first my forehead, then my chin. With the exception of placing blankets around me, checking my blood pressure, and putting the metal plate under my bum, next my skin (to complete the circuit for the soldering), his nurses did not touch me. The doctor did it all, and when he was done, he bandaged me. And did he ever bandage me! Oh, how he bandaged me!

I found out just how bandaged I was when I went to the restroom while I waited for Juan to pick me up. It was shocking. I looked like I had had my head opened and then taped shut. I took a picture of myself with my phone and sent it to my mother with no message. She immediately called back to ask who was in the picture. When I replied it was me, she asked if I had been in a wreck. I reminded her that I had an appointment to have moles removed. "Oh," she said. "You know when you're all bandaged up like that I can really see John (my six-year-old son) in your face."

When Juan arrived to pick me up he was shocked into heavy laughter. This of course made me laugh which was probably frowned upon as frowning was frowned upon, as was chewing or too much talking according the discharge instructions I was given.

Then, there was the elevator ride to the first floor. There was an older couple on the elevator. The man looked from me to Juan and from Juan to me. "What did you do to her?" he asked. I said, "Well, I had a couple of moles removed," motioning to the places on my face. Looking at the bandage on my forehead he said, "That must have been some mole!"

So when we got off the elevator and started walking to the parking lot, we were both laughing. Well, Juan was really laughing. I was laughing with a stiff chin and hoping I wasn't causing any major scarring.

I have never felt the stares of others as I did that morning while we waited for my pain killer and antibiotic prescriptions to be filled. Juan and I grabbed a quick lunch, Juan a hamburger and a milkshake for me. Fellow diners did not even make any attempt to avert their eyes. I could see that they needed answers. Moles people! I had moles removed!

When the bandages came off two days later, I didn't look much better. I went from being a mummy mommy to being a Franken-mommy. That's a post for another day.

He's Almost Ready for the Tour

My husband, Juan, has another love, and her name is Golf. She has been in his life for three years now, and for the most part, I tolerate her.

Since we married, my husband has had several extramarital involvements. When we lived in Chillicothe, he belonged to a bowling league. He bowled on his league night and practiced at least one other night a week. He watched tournaments on ESPN when he happened on them. He had all the proper equipment: his own balls, fancy shoes, top-of-the-line bag, a stylish towel. He even travelled once to a tournament in Marysville, OH which was an hour and half away from our home. After a successful night of bowling he would say, "Emily, I am almost ready for the tour."

Eventually, he lost interest in bowling, and for a time, when the stock market was a happy place, he loved to research stocks and play with a relatively small account we had for investing. He would come home and tell me all about this company or that and how it was going to revolutionize this or that. Sometimes when he was full of confidence about his financial savvy, he would say, "I think I have missed my calling. I should have been a stock broker." When the market began to go South, his love for it cooled and he turned his attention to other pursuits.

Then he started working on his MBA with his company footing the bill. He went to class every Wednesday for 18 months, during which we added a fourth child to our family. He was a favorite in his class of other professionals because he is smarter than the average bear and could help them through tough courses like Statistics and others that were math-intensive. His study group named themselves Juan.com. When the time to choose a focus rolled around, he chose entrepreneurship. One project in particular consumed him. Each of the groups in the class had a fictional bicycle shop that they built from the ground up in a computer program. There were five or six groups in the class, but Juan.com had 61% of the market share. My husband, who never has trouble sleeping (he could tell me things like, "The mill announced lay-offs will be made in the next few weeks," roll over, and start snoring in seconds), would wake in the middle of the night to work on this fictional bike shop. Needless to say, he was ready to start his own business when he finished the program. We just couldn't think of anything we wanted to do.

Then there was the hand-held "Texas Hold 'em" my mother gave him. His amazing electronic success, paired with the constant airing of poker tournaments on ESPN, had him threatening to break in to the World Series of Poker. Thankfully, that interest was short-lived. Although, he does enjoy the "Texas Hold 'em" application on his Blackberry.

Now, his obsession is golf. He never had much interest before a few years ago when he was asked to join his company's league. He did have a cheap set of Wilson clubs he had had from his days right after college. These clubs embarrassed him, so he bought a set of clubs that were not so embarrassing as the Wilsons but definitely did not convey the message that he was a serious golfer.

He began doing research on the best irons, putters, woods, the best shaft materials, the best shoes, golf bags, golf balls, etc. and bidding on E-bay. For a few years now, we have been receiving long skinny packages in the mail containing my husband's finds and bargains on E-bay to improve his game. He also frequents Golf Galaxy and knows the manager quite well. Now he has an impressive set, complete with a Notre Dame towel (to show his team spirit without being obnoxious) for wiping his dirty clubs. He has two bags, too. He finally got a walking bag so he can get more exercise out of his play.

We have golf balls, golf tees, divot-replacers and clubs all over our house. We have miniature putting green in our living room. He gets Golf Digest every month, watches how-to videos on the web, and watches the Golf Channel. Yawn. He has a player development membership at a local course in addition to the golf league that plays every Monday from April through October. He often hits balls before coming home from work. Sometimes he comes home saying, "Emily, I had an 'ah-ha' moment."

Sometimes he plays so well he says, "Next year, I am joining the tour."

Returning from a Hiatus: A Few Stories About My Youngest Children

I am still trying to figure this blogging thing out. I am used to being able to type in my word processing application and then cut and paste to Caring Bridge which is nice when I don't have internet access. I can't do that here, or at least, I can't make it happen. I am sure it's user error. I have had so many things happen that I have wanted to post here, but haven't had the time to sit down and write. After time passes, so do the ideas.

A few of the times I considered blogging include:

One day in the car, I realized that every time Kate (age 4) starts a conversation with me she says, "When I am mom, I am going to..."
"...chew gum and drink Coke."
"...live in a tree house."
"...have two dogs and one is going to be a weiner dog."
"...have candy in my house."
"...bake cakes and pies."
"...have babies but no kids and no dad."
John says, "The thing about babies, Kate, is that they grow up to be kids."

Another gem:

John's (age 6) pre-K teachers from last year asked him and his friend in jest if they wanted to teach class one morning. John's friend giggled and said, "Oh, you're so funny," to the teacher. John said, "Sure. Why not?"

He walked to the front of the class, introduced himself, assured them that he knew what he was doing because he had been to pre-K and proceeded to teach them all about fog. It reminded me of a college public speaking course I took. One day the instructor sent us the the front of the classroom one at a time and gave us each a topic. One topic I remember was dust bunnies. The student who could speak the longest without using um, er, like, you know, etc. won the admiration of the class and instructor. John would have excelled.

One last story for today:

One afternoon a few weeks ago, Kate and I were reading in my bed. I was so sleepy, I asked her if she wanted to rest with me and to my surprise, she said, "Okay, Mommy." She was no fun to sleep with as she kept tossing, turning, kissing me, and touching my face with her hands, including the one with the finger she sucks.

I asked her if she would like to rest in her room and she said, "Okay, Mommy." And she headed down the hall to her room where she made no noise and let me rest for 20 minutes or so before I shook off the fog enough to remember that Kate does really naughty things when she is quiet.

I walked down to her room and the door was opened. Her room was neat, and she had set up a little office with a V-Tech computer and lap desk. My heart was so warmed. It was one of those sweet moments a mom holds in memory. I asked her if she wanted to play with Play-do on the back stoop, and she was so happy because I truly don't like the mess she makes with Play-do. I was high on good feelings. She sat right outside the door while I read my book just inside the door at our big kitchen table. I could hear that sweet child singing her made up song about pink and rainbows and princesses and candy.

Just before the big kids walked in the door from the bus, I peeked out another window to the back yard and noticed a scarf that Julia had worn when she had cancer and no hair. I thought "That's odd," but the weather had been so nice, and the kids had been playing out so much, and I was so feeling so happy and content that I just thought, "Oh well, they've been playing one of their make believe games called 'Poor Little Girls Who Don't Have a Mother' (I know this bears some explanation. Another post...) so I won't say anything. I'll jut have them pick it up when they come in this afternoon."

When the big kids walked in, I asked John to run out in the yard and bring in the scarf. He went out with no argument but did not come back in. I threw open the back door to find out what was taking so long. He was laughing a big, deep belly laugh with his arms loaded with not only the scarf but hats, dirty undies, socks, uniforms, doll clothes, gloves, etc. I could not figure it out at first. How had all of these things ended up in the yard? Then I looked up and saw a hole in the screen. Remember when I said the weather had been nice? We had the windows cracked open to let in fresh air.

Kate denied any wrong doing. "I didn't do it. It wasn't me." I put her in her room with the door open and Mary (age 13) posted outside. Before I left her, she admitted that she had helped along a small tear in the screen and shoved the clothes out while making her office tidy. I told her that she could have been hurt and that screens were there to keep bugs and critters out of the house. That may have been a mistake because after she had taken full responsibility with me and Daddy, she recanted and blamed the squirrels. We keep her windows closed now.

There is always a price to pay for every moment of peace I steal.

The Talk

I have written before that I have five children. I may not have made it clear that I had them in eight and half years. I was always pregnant. Surprisingly, in that time none of my children ever asked where babies come from. As a child, I would have wanted to know. In fact, I asked my mother at age six.

Actually, I had picked up on conversation on the sitcom One Day at a Time about artificial insemination and asked my mother what it meant. Without so much as a change in respiration, she took me into her room and with paper and pencil drew diagrams of natural insemination. I didn't asked at the time how the sperm and egg happen to be in the same area, and she didn't tell me until I asked a few years later.

My fourth child and only son had his own ideas about how he came to be in our family. One night while cuddling before bedtime, he told me that he had always wanted a mom like me. "Isn't it great that I am your mom," I asked. To this he responded, "No, no, no. It's not like that. What happened was, I was flying around in my spaceship. You were asleep with your mouth open. I flew in and went into your tummy where I became a baby boy." He had it all figured out at age four.

My mother's approach to teaching us about the facts of life was that if my brother or I could formulate a question, we needed a satisfactory response. She did not want us to seek our answers on the school yard. We were also strictly forbidden to dispense our knowledge to our peers. I found myself in an uncomfortable position one day in the swimming pool at day camp when a girl my age asked me what I knew about where babies come from. I refused and told her to ask her own mother.

So I was ready from the time my children were quite young to give THE TALK in the same straight forward, age-appropriate way my mother had. But by the time my oldest was ten, none had asked any questions. Finally, I took my oldest on a walk in order to bring up the subject. I knew we needed to have the talk before puberty came a-calling. She had a basic nderstanding of the process from a book I forgotten we even had called What to Expect When Mommy's Having a Baby by Heidi Murkoff (of the What to Expect series for expectant mothers and fathers). It used a puzzle analogy for the mechanics of basic human reproduction. We expanded on that a bit, giving proper names for all of the parts involved, discussed the changes that would be taking place in puberty and why, and finished with a discussion of various moral implications. She was satisfied if a little mortified with the talk. We revisit the topic regularly as her reading and movie viewing become a little more mature to make sure she stays on guard.

One night at the dinner table near the end of sixth grade, she announced that her religion teacher would be giving the class a lesson in basic human reproduction the near future. When asked why the science teacher, a young, unmarried man, wouldn't be giving the talk, the religion teacher, a mother, grandmother, and wife of a member of the permanent diaconate, said, "Well, he is young and inexperienced, and I have been doing it for years." We are still laughing.

So I had one talk behind me and four more to go when my second child, then age nine, asked me if we could have some alone time to talk. When one has lots of kids, one has to schedule such things. "Sure," I said. "How about tonight?"

When the others were in bed, she came to my room, and after some hemming and hawing said, "I was wondering where babies come from." I began as my mother had begn with a description of the internal workings. She wasn't satisfied. "So does this just happen when you get married?" So explained the mechanics to her. She continued ot ask for more and more details, and when she finally understood, she screwed her face up in disgust and said, "You mean... you've... done... THAT?!"

"Well, yes, honey, we have five children."

She was still not completely satisfied. She wanted to know, "When? Where? How do you know when to do it? Where was I when you were doing it?"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, " I told her. "I will gladly answer any questions you have about the biology, mechanics, and morality of sex, but private matters are private and not open for discussion."

I told my mother about giving the talk with my second daughter, and she laughed. She told me that her mother, my sweet, little Granny, mother of eight, who wore a scapular and prayed the Rosary and Magnificat in Latin daily, had the same no nonsense approach to teaching the facts of life. My mother was fifth in the birth order and was as inquistive as her daughter would prove to be. She was also six or so when she sought answers to the burning questions surrounding the origins of babies one Saturday evening. The next morning at Mass as she sat with her family behind the Kleinschrodt family with all of their seven children, she recalls that ALL she could think about was that Mr. and Mrs. Kleinscrodt had done that SEVEN times. It never occurred to her at the time that her parents had done it even more since her parents had eight children plus numerous miscarriages.

We don't like to think of parents in such ways.

My mother and father still laugh about my second daughter's inquiry. Mom told me it has become a something of a private running joke and come-on. "Hey, do you do that?"

Eeeeewwwwww!